


Another Country (What Sustains Us Remix)

by Cinaed



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Guilt, Het, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Remix, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1534601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels like an impostor a little more each time Steve calls him Bucky, because he doesn’t have a right to that name, not really. Bucky’s the name of a man who died seventy years ago, a stupid kid from Brooklyn who followed not Captain America but Steve Rogers into hell and never came out again. </p><p>  <em>Everything we love fails...</em><br/><em>if by fails we mean ends or changes,</em><br/><em>if by love we mean what sustains us.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Country (What Sustains Us Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victoria_p (musesfool)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Another Country](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/47195) by musesfool. 



> Hope you enjoy this, musesfool! 
> 
> Thanks go out to [name redacted] for looking this over for me. 
> 
> The title comes from Jacqueline Berger's "The Failure of Language."

He underestimates Natalia the first time they meet. It is not that he outright dismisses her, because she is part of the Red Room and he is not a fool. But at first he sees just another girl being crafted into a soldier for the motherland, just another weapon he is to train. If she is interesting, it is only because she studies his features with appreciation and his metal arm with interest rather than fear, and that her fascination with him only grows as he trains her to fight and to conceal all feeling behind varying masks.

He doesn’t let himself think much of those days, even after Professor Xavier rummages through his mind and declares him free of any triggers or code words that will make him hurt himself, or worse yet, harm someone else. Welcome to the future, he thinks, where people can read your mind without even breaking a sweat. 

His memories are tattered and faded, like old photographs; sometimes he's not sure what’s reality, what’s the false remnants of the Red Room, and what’s a strange mixture of lies and truth. He remembers the murders, though, too many to be all implanted memories, too many for most not to be real. He remembers his time with Natalia also, the one good thing during his years with Department X, happy memories he doesn't deserve.

When he looks in the mirror, a killer’s lined face looks back, weary and troubled by his continued existence. Some days -- most days, if he's honest with himself (and he tries to be, because he's weary, too, of being lied to) -- he wishes Steve hadn't rescued him, had let him die mindless and ignorant as the Winter Soldier. It’s those days he hates himself the most, because he knows, he _knows_  that Steve would never forgive himself for letting him die.

Steve argues with Fury to let him join the Avengers. He doesn't know how to tell Steve to stop or explain that he doesn't trust himself on a team. He won't be able to protect them, and working with the Avengers won’t lessen the blood on his hands. Steve won't understand that final part though, believes that saying “That wasn't you, Bucky,” enough times will make it true rather than just wishful thinking.

He feels like an impostor a little more each time Steve calls him Bucky, because he doesn't have a right to that name, not really. Bucky’s the name of a man who died seventy years ago, a stupid kid from Brooklyn who followed not Captain America but Steve Rogers into hell and never came out again.

When Steve defends him to the Avengers and anyone else who so much as looks sideways at him, Bucky dons an old mask, a slightly crooked, apologetic smile that charms nearly everyone. He used that smile often for the Red Room, lowering his victims' defenses right before he struck. It fools most people.

One of the rare exceptions, someone unmoved by that smile because she knows too well the danger behind it, moves to stand beside him. She keeps herself in his line of sight so he’s not startled by her approach. He shouldn't be surprised. If nothing else, Natasha understands the hazard of startling a semi-retired assassin.

“You should fight your own battles,” she tells him. She looks unimpressed, almost disapproving.

Natasha Romanoff. Her new name is strange to him, but no stranger, he suspects, than his real name must be to her. He wonders sometimes what she used to call him in the privacy of her own mind, when she was still young and he was nameless. 

He laughs, bitter, and shakes his head. “I would if I thought I had a place on your team, but I work better alone.” Alone, so that he has no one to risk but himself.

“Steve won’t give up.” Natasha’s voice is quiet but certain.

Bucky doesn't quite smile as he says, that affection he’s always felt for Steve briefly warming his chest and chasing away the permanent chill that’s settled into his bones, “No. He won’t.”

“But you will.”

He blinks. He’s lost the thread of the conversation, distracted by stupid, stubborn Steve who’s never known when to call it quits. After a second, he realizes what she means. He meets her eyes. She doesn't bother offering him one of her masks. It would be a wasted effort. They both know each other too well for that; besides, every mask she wears is one he taught her. Her gaze is steady and without condemnation as he says, the truth scratching at his throat, “They’re not wrong. I wouldn't want me on the team either.”

As he walks away, he braces himself for some parting remark, but she doesn't say a word, just watches him go.

 

* * *

 

When Thor appears just outside the city, having been apparently off to Asgard dealing with some family stuff, the Avengers who are in New York -- Steve, Natasha, and Doctor Banner -- welcome him with open arms, SHIELD and Fury with reservations.

Bucky doesn’t know why he should get tripped up having a Norse god around when he was a brainwashed assassin with a metal arm for seventy years, Steve is practically immortal, and aliens invaded New York just two years ago, but meeting a god is still a little strange. The introduction’s made even stranger by Thor clasping his hand, the one made of flesh, and saying earnestly, “The captain has told me a little of your troubles, my friend. I am sorry for what you have endured. Those who twist the minds of others and for such foul purposes are surely cowards not worthy to call themselves men.”

“Uh, thanks,” Bucky says uncertainly.

He’s glad when Thor releases him and bellows, “Lady Natasha! It is a pleasure to see you once more!” The god catches Natasha in an embrace that startles a genuine laugh out of her, a strange, unfamiliar sound that makes Bucky stare longer than he means to, watching the unfeigned smile light up Natasha’s face as Thor lifts her off the ground and spins her in a circle.

It’s Steve, of course, who comes up with the idea that they should take Thor out to see the sights during the rare downtime they're currently experiencing. It’s one of Steve’s more obvious ways to try and integrate Bucky into the team, but this time he goes along with it. Thor’s not too bad, for a god, and Bucky has mostly confined himself to his room on the helicarrier and Steve’s spare bedroom. Steve is starting to hint that Bucky shouldn't shut himself away. He'll do it for Steve, he thinks. Besides, it might be okay to get some fresh air.

Bucky begins to think he’s made a mistake when they get to Coney Island. The crowds press on him, too many conversations and movements all around him, until he can barely breathe. He swallows down a request for them to get the hell out of here, ignores the way his heart is pounding an anxious _run-run-run_ beat in his chest. He’s not ruining this just because he’s feeling a little claustrophobic.

He catches Natasha watching him, but she doesn't say a word, and neither does he.

It’s not until he’s on the Cyclone that he knows this is a stupid mistake. The wind roars in his ears as they drop, deafening him. He can’t feel the safety bar pressing against his chest even when he gropes for it, though it has to be there, pinning him in place. When he opens his eyes, wondering when he closed them, the sky’s too blue, the wind too cold, and there’s Steve’s hand, outstretched and grasping for his even though it’s too late and Bucky’s falling, Steve’s name the last thing on his lips.

The ride shudders a stop and he grabs at the safety bar with his bionic hand; it gives way beneath his fingers. The bar bends just enough that he can duck under it. He trips and lands heavily, feeling the bad landing all the way up his legs. He takes two blind steps, then a third off the platform before he throws up the hot-dog he tried to enjoy earlier.

His throat burns and his eyes sting. His stomach roils, and for a second he thinks he’s going to be sick again. He tries to catch his breath, but his mouth tastes sour and foul. It's all he can do not to gag. When a hand -- Steve’s, he knows that touch, just like he knows instinctively that Natasha is nearby, observing them -- rests tentatively on his shoulder, he shakes it off and straightens, blinks until his vision's clear. Then he wipes his hand across his mouth.

He gropes for the right mask to wear, but they all seem wrong when Steve’s staring at him, eyes filled with concern. He goes for a smile, misses it by a mile if the way Steve frowns is any indication. “Guess they didn't give me an iron stomach to go with the arm,” he says. The joke falls flat, Steve looking pained instead of amused. He winces. “Sorry.”

“Bucky,” Steve says.

He can’t quite repress a flinch at the name, which belongs to a dead man more than ever in this moment. Now there’s confusion on Steve’s face alongside the worry. He attempts another smile, this one apologetic. “Me and my big mouth. Guess I still don’t like heights, that’s all.”

“We can head back,” Steve suggests, and then stops when Bucky shakes his head.

He ignores the way his stomach stays unsettled, how the wind's roar is still half-deafening him. He tries on a different mask, this one closer to the easy smile he wore before the war. It must be a better imitation than it feels, because Steve relaxes a little, though the concern doesn't leave his expression. “Everyone’s having fun, Steve. I’ll just hang out with the doc since he doesn't seem to be a fan of heights either.”

“I don’t mind heights,” Banner says dryly. “It’s the Big Guy who dislikes them.”

Bucky doesn't respond to that, because most days he’s not sure how to talk to Banner, a guy who seems to be pretty calm and hilariously sarcastic the majority of the time and a giant green monster for the rest. Instead he forces a grin at Steve and says, “Come on. Are you going to tell Thor he can’t try cotton candy because my stomach got a little queasy on a ride?”

“All right,” Steve says slowly. “But if you….” He trails off, the corners of his mouth pinching as Bucky shakes his head.

“Come on, doc,” Bucky says. He almost slings his arm across Banner’s shoulders, stops himself just in time. “You’re a scientist. You can spout math about the rides at me or something.”

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” Banner sighs, but follows after him anyway.

They've taken about six steps when Natasha appears beside them, a cup in her hand and a reserved look on her face. “Here,” she says, pressing the cup into Bucky’s hand. She curls his fingers around the drink when he just stares at her, caught off-guard by the gesture. Then she disappears back into the crowd before Bucky can do more than blink.

The water, somehow cold despite every single water fountain here giving out warm water, helps to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. The nausea lingers.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, he can’t sleep.

Every time he lies down and closes his eyes, the bed lurches under him and he’s falling again, Steve’s despairing face imprinted on the back of his eyelids. When he does sleep, it’s in short, fitful spurts, nightmares and memories cobbled together, with Steve, Natasha, and Becky’s dead faces alongside people Bucky really killed, their ashen, bloodied faces silent accusations as he wakes gasping and swearing under his breath in two languages, both feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.

He crawls out of bed and paces the small room SHIELD gave him. It’s not much larger than the cell they initially kept him in despite Steve’s objections. Tonight, it feels more like a cage than ever, but it's one he belongs in. Steve can't see it, but he knows the truth. He can't atone for the things he's done. It's too much. He can't bring back the dead, return the years he stole to them. He keeps pacing until he’s almost dizzy, his entire body shaking. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees another dead face; their voices murmur in his ears, profanity and pleas intermingled in a never-ending assault of sound.

It’s only then that he considers the gun he stole from the SHIELD shooting range the day after Professor Xavier pronounced him safe, when it became apparent SHIELD might consider him an asset rather than a liability. It would be easy to put the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger, he thinks, almost ridiculously simple. It'd be easier than putting a rabid dog down. There is no one here to stop him, and not even whatever Department X used on him can heal the damage a bullet does to the brain.

He kneels beside the bed, where he's hidden the gun under the mattress. His shaking hand fumbles for the gun’s grip, his throat tight with desperate relief that soon everything will be silent. Then he's distracted by the sound of the window frame coming loose.

He looks up, blinking as Natasha slides through the window and lands noiselessly next to his desk. She sets the frame on the table. For a moment he’s almost angry, but he’s too tired, really, to feel anything but disappointed. His fingers brush the grip, longingly, but he lets his hand drop to his side as Natasha unbends from her crouch.

She observes him for a long moment. He wonders what she sees, if she suspects what he was about to do and that’s why she’s here. Then again, maybe she thinks he is trying to pray, caught in this awkward kneeling position beside his bed. That thought makes him laugh; the rough, disused sound escapes him in a rush. He clamps his mouth shut, swallows down further mirth, because even that brief laugh had tasted of exhausted hysteria, sharp and bitter on his tongue.

“Trouble sleeping?” is all Natasha says, voice noncommittal.

He has to fight back another laugh because trouble sleeping is an understatement. “Yes. Did Steve send you?” His voice is hoarse, like he’s been screaming without realizing it. He frowns then, wondering if he was yelling during the nightmares. At least he wouldn't be disturbing the neighbors-- the room's soundproof. 

Natasha smiles at his question, though most wouldn't have recognized it as a smile. It’s the slightest crease in her forehead, a sudden relaxation of the muscles in her face, that gives away her amusement. “I’m not Steve’s errand-girl, so no,” she says, and then settles herself on the bed, which dips slightly at her weight. She's sitting just to the left of the gun. He wonders if she can feel it, if she's taken note of it and tomorrow he'll find the gun gone from its hiding place. "Though he's worried."

This is said without judgment, but he winces a little anyway, remembering Steve's concern. He wishes he could be the man Steve remembers, the friend Steve could count on and trust.    

Natasha stretches out her long legs in a studied gesture that draws Bucky’s gaze. He remembers again how beautiful Natasha is, a constant truth suddenly transformed into a revelation in the quiet of his bedroom. He recalls the power that is concealed beneath her jeans, how those muscles would clench tight around him when he bent between her legs and trusted her not to break his neck.

It's one of the only good memories of the Red Room, and he wants to slide his hand up her leg, see if this distraction chases away the ghosts at least for the night, but he is so tired. His head is heavy, his neck aching from the weight. Unthinking, he rests his head against her knee, breathes deep. His eyes burn and he thinks again, wistfully, of the gun concealed beneath his mattress and of the missed opportunity. If she had come only five minutes later.... 

Natasha stiffens a little, surprised, and then relaxes. Her hand comes to rest almost tentatively upon his head, her fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp. The gesture sends small sparks of pleasure down his spine and he sighs, closing his eyes. This time no dead faces appear against the back of his eyelids. His thoughts settle, enough for guilt to replace some of the disappointment and for his thoughts to gain some clarity. There's still a bit of wistfulness for the missed opportunity, but there's a little bit of relief too. He wouldn't have wished that on Natasha, coming into the room to find him dead and having to tell Steve. He isn't worth their distress. 

“You will be stiff in the morning if you fall asleep,” Natasha observes above him, but she keeps scratching slow circles upon his scalp. It's not something she would have done before, the gesture skirting too close to affection. He would not have let her before, he thinks, too wary of the Red Room's punishments. But if there is anything good about the future, it's that the Red Room is gone, Department X destroyed completely. The only thing Bucky has to fear now is himself. 

But at the moment, he's not frightened. The ground is still beneath him, the accusations of the dead and the roar of the wind finally gone from his ears. Natasha's somehow banished his ghosts for the night. He shouldn't be surprised, for Natasha constantly amazes him, and yet he marvels a little and wonders how she manages to quiet her own ghosts. The past does not rest lightly on her shoulders -- he has seen the guilt and the determination to atone in her eyes -- and yet she carries it better than he thinks he ever will.

Everything is still and quiet, the ghosts banished for at least a few hours. He's half-asleep when Natasha murmurs, “Will you spar with me in the morning?”

For a moment, he hesitates, for there are no simple questions, not between them, layers of meaning in each query. Before, sparring was often code for other things, stolen moments unsanctioned by Department X. He remembers, the faded photographs of memory gaining a little color, how she would press him to the ground and fit herself perfectly to him, leave bite marks across his chest that were gone the following morning. For the first time since Steve saved him and cobbled pieces of Bucky and the Winter Soldier into a patchwork man, arousal warms his veins, muted but present. He sighs quietly, still not quite _grateful_ that she came when she did, but less and less disappointed with each passing second to be alive.

Her hand is still on his brow, gentler and more patient than he remembers her ever being. She was generally patient with her kills, of course, but not when they fucked. Then she'd been eager and impatient to experience everything he could offer, so young and curious about every way she could touch him and be touched in return.

“Yes,” he says at last, an echo of other yeses and pleases and goods he breathed into her skin, promises he couldn't keep. This promise, however, he won't break, even if he still feels like a half-blind man fumbling in the dark for a light, each step uncertain.

“Good,” Natasha says. He can hear the pleased note in her voice. She smooths her hand over his hair, almost a caress. "Now, go to sleep. Or do I have to knock you out?" 

He hides his smile against her knee, though she can probably feel the movement, and mutters, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Sleep," she says again, warm amusement coloring the command.

He obeys. This time, he doesn't dream.


End file.
